


I Got You (Babe)

by HappyGetLucky



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Bandverse, Bar, Blowjobs, But we all know they switch irl right?, Didn't Know They Were Dating Trope, Frottage, Karaoke, M/M, Tyler is kind of a dick IMO, josh tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 13:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyGetLucky/pseuds/HappyGetLucky
Summary: Tyler figures that the worst time to find out you're actually dating the guy you thought was your best friend is right after he breaks up with you.I also write under SpookySad.Twitter @ Spooky_Sad





	I Got You (Babe)

**Author's Note:**

> I want to make them do karaoke, I thought

“How do I look?”

Josh sticks his head out of the bathroom, his toothbrush held between his foamy lips. Tyler is standing in front of the floor-length mirror, turning to look at himself from obscure angles. His skinny jeans are tight and too short for his long legs. The black button down on he has is sleeveless, a shade darker than the tattooed bands around his arm. Tucked low on his forehead is a baseball cap.

“You kind of look like a pizza delivery guy,” says Josh through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Tyler’s eyes widen—he looks so delicate, so pretty in his outrage. “It’s the hat, isn’t it?” Tyler takes the hat and throws it over his shoulder. He holds his arms out. “Okay. Here’s my second draft. Thoughts?”

Josh sums up his thoughts with an inarticulate noise, winking, thumb up and minty-fresh. Tyler’s entire body relaxes, from his shoulders to his eyelids, slipping low over his dark eyes. He glances at the digital clock on the nightstand—or maybe he’s looking towards where they keep the lube and condoms.

“No—no way. It’s already seven,” Josh says. He spits into the sink, leans down to sip water from the faucet. When he stands up, his half-hard dick brushes the porcelain countertop and he sighs. No—no chance he’s going to rub one off on a sink. When he looks in the mirror, Tyler is there. His shirt is already unbuttoned, hanging loosely to show his flat chest, the stark tattoos there. “I’m hungry dude. You promised me bar food.”

“Why can’t we fuck,” Tyler asks. “ _And_ get bar food?”

“And what happens when your shirt gets wrinkled?” Josh asks. “You know you won’t leave the house with a wrinkled shirt.”

Tyler presses his lips to the bare nape of Josh’s neck. “You’ll iron it for me?”

#

It’s a warm evening, so they walk from the house to the bar, hands swinging close enough to brush and the sounds of the city their only conversation.

Josh’s house is located not far from the hub of Columbus; Tyler is technically living with him. Technically. After the tour ended, he spent some time with his parents and siblings, but he always ends up drawn back to Josh’s place. Why should he sleep on a couch alone when he could sleep in a bed with someone he loves? Sometimes, he thinks about asking to move in. There are plenty of good reasons to: they’re in a band together, they spend so much time together already, they get along well. He hasn’t gotten around to asking because he knows how it would look: two grown men living in the same house together.

So instead, he tells people that he crashes on the couch. He ignores any stirrings in his gut when Josh tells him that he cleared out some drawers in his bedroom armoire for him. He’s not weirded out when Josh starts keeping Tyler’s favorite kind of yogurt stocked in the kitchen—it’s good yogurt. Anybody would buy it. And if he sometimes does the laundry on weekends, it just to repay his closest friend and ease the burden of his presence.

Tyler knows he can’t control the image people have of his relationship with Josh. He stopped trying long ago. It’s become like a game between them, fueling the rumors of their bromance-turned-romance. In private, the lines are even more blurred than they seem during the flirtatious interviews. He _knows_ it isn’t normal to have platonic sex with his best friend, but this routine between them is so comfortable, so broken in. Too much time has passed for them to change the nature of their relationship. Even speaking of it too loudly might spoil things—and that’s the last thing Tyler wants.

They don’t make it to the bar until eight. On a Saturday night in Columbus, it’s packed: filled to the brim with college students looking for off-campus entertainment. There is a bachelorette party taking up a sizeable corner of the bar next to a stage, and one of the women (wearing a sash that proclaims her the Maid of Honor) is singing a rendition of Like a Virgin that honestly, isn’t half bad.

Tyler sings the song into Josh’s ear once they’ve found a table, wiping away crumbs left behind from the other patrons. He can’t help but shift on the stool, feeling the ache from where Josh was inside of him forty minutes ago. It’s thrilling to be around so many unwitting people with that ache, and it stokes a fire inside of him. Josh looks so good in his sleeveless t-shirt, tattoos bared—Jesus. Tyler could go again.

When the waitress comes by, he orders an array of food: mozzarella sticks, hot wings, spinach with artichoke dip, and drinks for the both of them, making up for arriving later than Josh would have liked.

“Sorry if we’re later than you’d like to be,” Tyler has to shout to be heard over the cacophony of voices and synthetic pop music. A television on the wall is playing highlights from the game earlier in the week when the Cavaliers played the Warriors, and his eyes are glued there, even as he rests his elbow on the table, smothering a smile behind his palm.

“Worth it,” Josh shouts back, squeezing Tyler’s knee. It goes straight to his dick, so he bats the hand away laughing.

Their drinks come: shots. They both hate shots, but appreciate the warmth of the drunkenness. On their empty stomachs, it shouldn’t take much to help get them there; then they can enjoy their beers, cruising along the same tipsy line for the rest of the night.

“Should we toast the end of the tour?” Josh asks.

“Yes,” Tyler says. “Can’t wait to be back.”

They clink glasses, barely heard over the noise, and swallow their shots.

A woman goes by their table, stops to clutch at the edge of it. Tyler reaches out on instinct, scared that she might topple over. A sash across her chest proclaims her a bridesmaid, one of the bridal party members of the bachelorette party across the room. Her hair is all loose curls clinging together in the humid heat of the bar and the sticky web of hairspray. She stares at them with red eyes. At last, she points a remarkably steady finger at his face.

“I know you,” she says, pointing at Tyler. “ _Where_ do I know you from?”

“He might have delivered a pizza to you,” Josh offers. Tyler grabs his knee under the table and squeezes, trying not to laugh.

“No—no. You’re up on my kid’s bedroom wall!”

“Gross,” Josh whispers, lowly into Tyler’s ear. The breath against his neck has him shifting on his seat, and the shifting has his eyes growing heavy. “What are you doing on a kid’s bedroom wall?”

“You’re with that band. Oh my _god_. If I hear Ellis screaming about your car stereo one more time—”

“I’m sorry,” says Tyler, smiling. “Only, not really.”

“Fuck! I’ve got to get a picture with you. Can we take a picture together? You’re the other one, aren’t you? Your hair is different. No, no, I like it. Sharon! Come take my picture with these boys!”

The woman squeezes between them, kneeling down to be more even with their seated heights. She smells like perfume, but her breath when she speaks in Tyler’s face is all tequila: “I’m going to be a hero at home, I swear to god. Ellie is going to freak out.” Underneath the table, he reaches for Josh’s hand—Josh is already reaching back. They squeeze fingers.

The Maid of Honor ( _“Like a vir-gin! Hey!”_ ) takes their picture on an iPhone. “Would you like us to write her a note, too?” Tyler asks, face feeling as warm as his belly, swimming with alcohol. “We can sign something for her.”

“They. They’re a they.”

“Sorry,” Tyler says. “We’d love to sign something for them.”

“Would you? Would you really? I don’t have my purse on me. Do you have a pen?”

The woman (Alice) has to ask around the bachelorette party to find someone with a pen, and then Tyler and Josh write on a napkin from the bar. _God, I hope it doesn’t smell like tequila_ , Tyler thinks as he watches Josh write **Stay Alive, E!** in his usual, neat script. Then he slides the napkin to Tyler, who hunches over it secretively like a kid hiding his test answers.

“You guys are all my baby talks about. I know your names—I do. Tyler and Josh. I’m just drunk. Don’t write anything about that on there, okay! Ha, I’m only kidding, babe. You two helped Ellis come out of the closet, so I _had_ to tell them how I was bi too—some kind of queer currency exchange or something—we all cried our fucking eyes out, had a real Dr. Phil moment.”

“Really?” Tyler says, head popping up. He loves these stories, loves connecting with fans. It’s incredible to feel like a conduit for the spark of their courage. That spark feels like it’s in his throat, held back by the smile of his teeth. “They’re so brave; you are too. That’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” Alice says. She points between Josh and Tyler like she’s stirring a drink with her finger. “How long have you two been together?”

“We’ve been twenty one pilots for almost seven years.”

“No, I mean how long have you two been a couple?”

“Oh, we’re not,” answers Tyler.

His voice is nearly drowned out by Josh chiming in: “Six years this summer.”

There is a long moment of silence. Tyler’s pen hovers over the napkin as he stares at Josh, squinting. What’s Josh doing? They’ve never said something like that to a fan. They’ve never said something like that at all. It’s a pretty steep move in the game they play with the press. Josh is sipping at his beer, staring over the lady’s shoulder at the television on the wall.

“Uh-oh,” Alice says, drunken astute eyes slipping from one of them to the other. “Yikes. Lovers’ spat. This is where I uh—get out of here. Thanks boys. Keep on trucking. Hope you get your stereo system back.” She slips the napkin out of Tyler’s lax hand and flits away, sash fluttering behind her like a flag attached to the hood of a car.

“What are you doing?” Tyler asks.

Josh turns his eyes to him, too guileless to be innocent. “What?” he asks.

“You said we were dating—”

“We are dating.”

Tyler laughs. “Dude, we’re not, though.”

“Okay,” says Josh. He’s laughing too, only the sound doesn’t make Tyler’s heart skip. It slips underneath his skin and gives him a bad feeling. They’re both laughing, but it’s for completely different reasons, and Tyler can’t tell what they are.

“What? Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That—what you’re doing. Being condescending.”

Josh’s face gets soft. He puts his beer down, wipes his damp hand on his jeans before reaching for Tyler’s hand underneath the table. There is strength in the way they clutch at each other, and underneath that strength, he thinks he can sense alarm. “I shouldn’t be. I’m sorry. I know you don’t think we’re dating.”

“We aren’t,” Tyler says gently.

“Then what are we doing?” Josh asks.

“We’re—friends.”

“Friends.”

“Best friends.”

“Who fuck.” Josh isn’t usually so uncouth. He must be feeling as warm as Tyler is.

“I mean. Yeah, I guess. It’s like. We hook up sometimes, but—”

“Ty, nothing about this is a hook up,” says Josh. “I know that it’s this unspoken _thing_ between us. But sometimes it might not be bad to acknowledge it, you know.”

His hand underneath Josh’s shrivels up, fingers fighting their way out from between the other man’s. There’s not enough spit in his mouth to swallow with, and his chest is tight. Then it just comes out, the same thing he’s been insisting this whole time only harsher, louder: “We’re _not_ dating.”

Josh turns his eyes back to the television across the room. His jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth together, looking a little like Tyler has fed him particularly sour medicine. On the table, one thumb drums out an anxious beat. “Whatever,” he says, rubbing at the anxious wrinkles on his forehead. “You know—you’re right. We definitely are _not_ dating.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Tyler mutters. He stands up, bumping against the table. Josh reaches out to hold on to his beer, but doesn’t glance over. Doesn’t check to see if Tyler is alright. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

He leaves before he can see Josh ignore him. Wading through the sea of people, he has to stand in a line for the bathroom (the Women’s restroom is out of order, a little sign tucked over the knob), but the bar keeps the room clean enough. The stalls are spacious, practically made for fucking. If Tyler were in here ten minutes ago, he might be thinking about that. Thinking about luring Josh in here. About _hooking up_. Now, his heart in his chest feels like a knot that someone is pulling tight. How could he have missed this? Josh thought they were _dating_. How could Josh have missed that Tyler wasn’t interested in something like that?

If they were dating, it was the slowest moving relationship of the fucking century. Glacial. Why the fuck would Josh stick around in a relationship like that?

Most of all, he can’t help but feel unentitled to the tears in his eyes. They weren’t together. But then why does he feel like he was broken up with?

Tyler works his phone out of his pocket. His fingers hover over the keyboard, typing phantom words. Scared to see the answer. **Hooking up vs dating.**

He hits the motherlode on the first article. 7 Ways to Tell if You’re Dating or Just Hooking up. Were there really so many people out there who blurred the lines between those two distinctions? It seemed obvious: to be dating, you had to ask somebody out. _Hey Josh, will you be my boyfriend? Why Yes Tyler, I fucking will!_ Distinct. Then why was he up to his swimming eyes in this mess? He clicks on the page before he can chicken out, shifting on the uncomfortable toilet seat. People come and go into the bathroom but no one bothers him; it’s a courteous enough place, which is why Josh and Tyler frequent it. The wifi sucks though, he thinks while his foot bounces perpetually.

When it loads, he scrolls down through the obligatory rambling bullshit introduction and skips straight to the countdown. It isn’t promising.

  1. You’re Seeing a Lot of Each Other (And Not Much of Other People)



Okay, but really—how much could that mean? He and Josh weren’t just friends, they were coworkers. Of course, they saw a lot of each other. Sharing close quarters while touring the world wasn’t exactly optional. And the time they spent hanging out outside of work? Well, they were friends too. Obviously they would hang out.

As for seeing other people, Tyler couldn’t remember the last time he had been out on a date. He threw himself into his work, into the music. It had always been his excuse for his lack of a love life. Josh was just as devoted as he was—Tyler demanded that from him; he never would have welcomed anyone into the band who felt less devotion to their cause; because of that, he had never wondered why Josh wasn’t seeing other people. The schedule was brutal. It all made sense…

He scrolled down.

  1. You’ve Met Each Other’s Families



That was just a given, considering they’d been friends for nearly a decade! Just because he was almost included in the Dun’s family Christmas card and he’d gotten to pull apart the wishbone with Ashley last Thanksgiving—that didn’t necessarily mean anything about his relationship with Josh.

But he had to admit that he could see it. He could see how those lines might have been blurred. There was always a seat placed by Josh for Tyler at Dun family events. Half of the gifts Tyler had been gifted at Christmas last year by his own family were for him and Josh, like they were a couple. The thought hits him like the alcohol hit his empty stomach—did his family think he and Josh were dating? He scrolls through his recent texts with his mom, looking for clues. **Hey Ty, can u and josh bring the ice on the 4 th? Btw Zack says he’s electing josh to light the fireworks again this year LOL**

“Oh my fucking god,” Tyler mumbles. “We’re dating, aren’t we.”

The person in the next stall clears their throat.

“Not you,” Tyler says. _Jesus_. “A little privacy please?”

He scrolls through the rest of the points at lightning speed, snippets of his relationship with Josh playing like a movie in his mind: it’s a fucking romcom, no less. The rare lazy mornings they’d spend together in bed; the flower Tyler had given him for Valentine’s Day, and when he’d found it hanging upside down, petals wilting, in Josh’s tour bus; how Josh is the first person he thinks of when he receives good news; how Josh is the first person he thinks of when he’s had a bad day.

Would a dating Josh be so bad? Would labels, making things official ruin their spontaneous nature? What difference would a title make if they were already together in every other semblance? Their families thought they were dating. Their fans thought they were dating (albeit secretly). What would it matter if they bit the bullet and called each other boyfriends?

The pressure would matter. The pressure of performing—so much more nerve-wracking than being on stage—of being a boyfriend. Suddenly, Tyler feels like he barely knows what the word means. What does it entail, to Josh? If they made things official, what sort of things would Josh expect from him? What would their families expect, the press, the fans? Putting pressure on something like this, something tentative, something so fucking important to him…what if it broke everything? What would he do without Josh, without the other half of his band? The other half of his person?

“God,” he says, half-praying, half lamenting, “Help me.”

He’s scared. He feels ashamed. He feels so, so foolish for not seeing what was in front of him for so long. They were _dating_.

Only now, they _weren’t_.

“You okay in there buddy?” Someone asks, rapping on his stall door.

“Yes,” Tyler lies. Jesus, can’t a guy shit in peace?

When he emerges from the stall, there is already someone new rushing into the bathroom, pausing at the urinal against the wall. Tyler washes his hands for appearances. In the mirror, he looks different, but he can’t say how. He looks nothing like how he felt slinking into the bar thirty minutes ago, Josh’s hand resting against his lower back burning hot through his shirt.

The bar is still bustling. He doesn’t look towards his table with Josh—can’t, not yet—and instead heads to the bar, pushing his way between the bodies and catching the bartender’s eyes. Tyler buys another shot, takes it even though he still feels warm from the first, and then buys two more beers.

Josh hasn’t moved. The food has arrived but it sits untouched. Josh has one elbow planted on the table, chin resting in his palm. He has always been one of those people that wears their heart on their sleeve (that’s one of the things Tyler loves, one of the things that awes him), so Tyler takes a long moment to size him up while he places their beers on the table.

He doesn’t look as sad as Tyler expected, more resigned than anything.

“You missed the highlight reel,” Josh says, dully.

“I didn’t know,” says Tyler. He sits down heavily on his stool. “About us. I didn’t know. How could I _not_ know?”

Josh only glances over for a moment out the corner of his eye before he turns his gaze back to the television. He shrugs one freckled shoulder, bared by his sleeveless shirt. Part of him wants Josh to be conciliating. The drummer has never had the stomach to watch someone be in pain or be uncertain; he’s the most empathetic person Tyler knows. Josh is anything but comforting, though: “You only see what you want to see, I guess.”

 “That’s not true.”

“Alright.”

“Why are you doing that?” Tyler asks lowly. He glances around to be sure no one is obviously listening in, that Alice is a safe distance away across the room. The bridal party is taking shots now, the faux veil on the bride’s head limp and crooked. No one else seems to recognize them. “You obviously don’t agree with me. If that’s not how you feel, then why don’t you say something?”

Josh’s elbow bangs against the table, their beers shuddering in their glasses. “Because saying how I do feel wouldn’t get me anywhere. Because I know you, so I know that it’s useless. Every time we get close to labeling what this is between us, you get scared. You turn your head and you pretend not to see it. You gaslight me. Don’t—don’t say anything. It’s true, you do. _Everybody texts their friends good morning, Josh. Best friends suck each other off sometimes; it doesn’t mean anything. Here’s these platonic Valentine’s Day flowers, buddy!”_

“ _I_ was trying to believe those things,” Tyler says. His stomach turns with the alcohol. They’re inches away from each other, only growing quieter as they argue, instinct telling them not to be overheard. Josh is genuinely one of the most beautiful people Tyler has ever seen: the slant of his eyes, the length of his lashes, the arch of his lips. “I wasn’t saying those things to manipulate you or make you feel like you were going crazy. I was trying to manipulate myself. And sometimes, I really believed it. I knew that we were different than other best friends but—I thought maybe we were just being us. Our version of best friends.”  

“Then you’re a fool,” says Josh.

“Why did you stay with me for so long, then?” Tyler asks.

“Because you’re a fool but I love you.” Josh says it like it hurts, like the words are barbed clinging to his tongue. “I guess I thought that if I gave you time, you’d see it. That you’d want it. Me. _Officially_.”

“Maybe I do,” says Tyler. “Maybe I’m scared.”

“ _May_ be it’s too late,” says Josh.

“Is it?” Tyler asks. Josh doesn’t answer.

“Tyler?”

The bubble between them is popped. Both of their heads turned to see the DJ there: he’s a thin man in a wheelchair, wearing one of the bar’s t-shirts and a baseball cap similar to the one Tyler ditched before leaving for the bar. He jerks a thumb towards the stage where a man is poorly singing a Kenny Chesney song. “You’re up next.”

“Excuse me?”

Josh shifts. “I put your name down when you were in the bathroom.”

“Why?”

“To see you suffer, hopefully,” Josh mutters.

“No thanks,” Tyler tells the DJ.

“Bud, the next five patrons after you all belong to Lady Gaga’s twelve disciples over there. If we don’t get some variety soon, I’m going to uh—lose my mind.”

 _Now is the worst part of the drama for a musical number_ , he thinks. Tyler trudges across the bar (a little tipsily) following in the path of the DJ’s wheelchair to the little booth he has set up. There’s a laminated book with a list of songs that he can choose from. He looks for twenty one pilots songs first (ha, because he’s _so_ funny) but there aren’t any. Tyler isn’t sure whether to be insulted or relieved. Flipping aimlessly through the sticky pages, he just sees Josh’s face.

“Ready when you are,” the DJ says, as the Kenny Chesney song ends. Tyler picks a song.

“That’s a duet,” the guy says.

“I know,” says Tyler.

There’s something about stepping on stage. It draws something out of him, exorcises a part of him out from his depths and into the forefront. Even this flimsy stage, only a step up off of the bar floor, with yellow lights shining down on him—it sets him on fire. He’s always treated crowds the same: five people, fifty people, fifteen thousand people. The name of the song shows up on the screen: I GOT YOU BABE, SONNY & CHER, 1965.

“I, uh, I’d like to dedicate this song to my boyfriend,” Tyler says into the mic. He thought that saying it would be like hefting a boulder over his head, but the word rolls off his tongue easily, a pebble skipping across the water, sweet as Josh’s name. There is hooting through the bar, a downright riot from the bachelorette party. “I hope he won’t make me sing it alone.”

Josh has his mouth buried in his palm again, but the rolling of his eyes is visible even in the dim bar lighting. The music starts, tinny, a generic karaoke rendition. Tyler feels hot under the lights. He can’t look anywhere except for Josh—his favorite audience. It’s borderline sexual, he thinks. Josh’s gaze has a presence, has a sentience, reaches out and touches him, holds him hostage. Tyler’s never loved captivity more.

The song is short. Josh joins him halfway through the first verse, singing the part of Sonny. He isn’t a very good singer, but Tyler can barely hear him. He’s too distracted, caught up in how they share a microphone, breaths mingling. They nudge against each other with every line (I got _you)_ in affirmation _._ Josh is damp with sweat under the lights, and Tyler can’t help but reach out and touch him, wrap his fingers around Josh’s bicep like some sort of lusty appraisal, feeling his lover’s skin like hot silk. The eye contact between them is practically lude. Tyler knows he’s half hard, doesn’t know whether to put distance between them and risk the crowd seeing his erection or to press closer and only get harder. An entire silent conversation is held between the lines of the song: Tyler isn’t forgiven. Yet. But he’ll work for it. He’ll make it right. They’ll put a label on it, they’ll have the pomp and circumstance. Tyler’s a fool, but he’s Josh’s fool.

Josh reaches out for the mic that Tyler holds between them, clasps his fingers over Tyler’s and squeezes gently. The microphone might as well be his cock for how Tyler jolts, eyes rolling. When the song ends, their mouths are drawn together, hot tongues and Josh’s hand on the back of Tyler’s neck pressing him closer. Tyler drops the microphone.

“Bathroom,” Josh says.

“Call an Uber,” Tyler says, reaching down for the mic. He’s flushed enough without blushing from embarrassment, the bar alive with applause and whistles. They can’t properly fuck in a bar bathroom.

“Bathroom,” Josh insists. “Pay the tab first.”

Josh disappears off the stage. He’s walking jerkily, hips cocked towards the side of the bar that has the fewest patrons. Tyler’s no better, aching between his legs. His heart flutters as he walks to their table, fumbling with his wallet. Their food is untouched, and someone has come by and snagged their beers. He drops the cash on the table, catching the waiter’s eyes to let him know it’s there, before doing his best not to sprint outright to the bathroom.

The Out of Order sign has been switched from the Women’s room door to the Men’s room door. Tyler enters hesitantly, pulse jumping with the risk, the thrill. “Josh?” he stage-whispers. There’s no reply, but when he slips inside, shutting the door behind him, he can see Josh at the sinks, leaning over with his hands braced on countertops. They meet eyes through the mirror.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Josh says. “I appreciated it. But you didn’t have to say it to everyone in the bar. That’s not why I put your name on the DJ’s list.”

“I know,” Tyler says. He swallows, mouth dry. “I wanted to. I really did.”

Josh jerks his thumb towards a bathroom stall. “Wanna—?”

“Fuck, yes.”

They nearly take the door off the hinges when they force it open, connected at the mouths. The bathroom door has the Out of Order sign but Tyler still isn’t interested in anyone who might still walk in getting an eyeful of his cock—nor Josh’s—so he shuts the stall door and locks it. Josh presses him back against it and the first collision of their hips is orgasmic. He’s been hard since the lights first hit him on the stage, since he first made eye contact with Josh across the bar. It doesn’t make sense how the contact brings relief but stokes his desire, makes him whine in the back of his throat.

Josh’s mouth trails over the line of his jaw, drifting down his neck to mouth at that spot between his neck and shoulder that makes goosebumps sprout along his arms and legs. Tyler doesn’t want to fuck here—it’s a public bathroom for fuck’s sake—but the distance between the bar and Josh’s house ( _their house? Is it their house now_ , he wonders dimly) seems insurmountable.

“I love you,” Josh groans against his neck.

“I love you too,” Tyler sighs to the ceiling, eyes fluttering closed. He feels drunk on Josh and the drinks he had earlier. “Kiss me,” he mutters to the darkness behind his eyes. “Please, please fucking kiss me. I need it— _God_ —”

“Do you ever shut up,” Josh mutters laughing, fingers grabbing Tyler’s chin to tilt his head down. Josh licks into his open mouth, runs his tongue along Tyler’s gently crooked teeth, sucks on his full bottom lip. Tyler feels like his bones have turned to mush, like the only thing holding him up is the press of Josh’s body against his. He’d let Josh do whatever he wanted to him. He loves him that much, trusts him so implicitly. There’s a part of him (mostly unspoken) that relishes this relinquishment of responsibility.

His fingers scratch at Josh’s belt. He gets distracted by the bulge of Josh’s cock—presses his palm flush against it to swallow the other man’s groan. “Can I suck you off? Let me, please?”

“Well I’m not gonna say _no_.”

Tyler kneels, pushes up the bottom few inches of Josh’s shirt to mouth at the flat warmth of his abs, opening his mouth to drag his teeth against them just to listen to the noises Josh makes. His fingers are shaking, badly, but Josh waits patiently, watching on and curling his fingers in Tyler’s hair affectionately. “Jesus, you’re hot,” Tyler says, his mouth working without his mind’s permission. He’s gentle when he pulls down Josh’s jeans and boxers, bringing his cock free. He isn’t as gentle when he digs his thumbs into the hollows of the other man’s hipbones, feeling the unforgiving strength of the muscles there. He teases: “Can’t believe my boyfriend is so fucking hot.”

Josh snorts. He tightens his fingers in Tyler’s hair and pulls, just enough for it to ache and for him to look up so they meet eyes. The look is painfully tender. They’re so fucking in love.

He leans forward to lap at the head of Josh’s cock, tasting the pre-cum there, curling his tongue underneath the rim. The noise Josh makes when he swallows his cock is half-feral, and through his half-closed eyes, Tyler can see the muscles in his abdomen tensing and jumping with the effort it takes not to thrust forward and choke him. That control, that effort, that restraint—he groans, reaching one hand down to palm himself through his jeans like he’s nothing but a teenager. The sensation is dulled through his skinny jeans but he kind of likes it. He kind of likes having to _work_ for it.

“I’ll never get tired of you,” says Josh, so quietly and reverently that Tyler almost misses it, his head thrown back against the door, free hand balled into a fist in his shirt, holding it up so it doesn’t get in Tyler’s way.

Tyler take a slow steady breath, relaxes his throat and presses forward. He’s not very good at deepthroating, not even with all the practice he valiantly gets, but he knows that half the fun of the performance is the sound he makes when he gags, the feeling of his throat fluttering around Josh’s cock’s head, the rush of saliva that slicks his mouth and lips and chin.

Josh curses long and slow. The fist holding his shirt comes loose and flies towards his mouth where he bites on his knuckles, trying to keep quiet. Tyler has to stop rubbing his cock to reach up and keep the fabric up out of his face, whining at the loss of the pressure. One thumb rubs at Josh’s abs. They tense, Josh’s chest expanding as he draws a breath and holds it, knuckles raw. When he comes, it comes in waves, groans, tender curses, and the taste of cum on the back of his tongue.

“I love you,” Josh pants, tugging up his jeans. “I would have waited forever.”

“You don’t have to,” Tyler whines, throat raw. He presses a kiss above the waistband of Josh’s pants. His breaths are stuttered, hips moving gently of their own accord. Josh helps him up, knees creaking (they’re getting old, Tyler thinks fondly). His legs are like jelly, half-asleep, but his cock is wide awake, aching, painful. Josh lets him rest against him, lets him rut against the crux of his hips.

“Can you come like this?” Josh whispers, like he doesn’t already know. He thrusts his hips and the pressure makes Tyler see stars, mouth open, gasping for air that seems to be in short supply. “Can you get off, if this is all I give you?”

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”

“Take it then,” Josh breathes. “Go on.”

Tyler takes it, buries his face in Josh’s neck while he jerks his aching cock against Josh’s hips. The drummer angles himself to make it easier, presses out a thigh. The pressure is building so he chases it, desperate for it. His balls tighten and the ache snaps, his whines cutting off as he chokes, toes curling in his shoes as he blows his load. He shudders, once, twice, three times. Josh lets him come down slowly, rubbing his cheek against Tyler’s hair.

“That was hot,” Josh laughs.

“Shut up,” Tyler says, still catching his breath. “I’ve got cum in my boxers now. I’m not walking home like this.”

Josh presses a tender kiss to his temple. “You told me to call an Uber, dude. He’s probably outside wondering where the hell we are.”

Tyler groans appreciatively, shifting. “I knew I loved you for a reason.”

“A few reasons, I hope.”

“A ton, plausibly.”

“I’m not taking the bait,” Josh says, but he’s shaking with laughter.

He sighs, wraps his arms around Josh’s middle. He’s sleepy, from the alcohol and the orgasm. Content. “Carry me,” he mutters. He doesn’t need to see Josh rolling his eyes—he can nearly hear it.

“I got you,” Josh says, tucking Tyler under his arm.  


 

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Lua! Thank you for believing in me and trusting me with this. I hope I did it justice. 
> 
> Leave me a comment, or find me on twitter to talk @ Spooky_Sad


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